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Midsummer m 
Wliittier's Country 



Midsummer m 
\V liittier s Country 

A Little Study oi Sanjwick Center 

By ETHEL ARM ES 

WitK Sketckes ky tke Autkor 




PnUisIicJ at BirmiatfliaiB. AlaWsM 
By Advance Preae 



"biK^c 






TO 

MY COMRADES OF THE HILLS 

ALICE 

AND 

H. P. J. 










Fo 



rewori 



This little study of Sandwich Center, 
tells quite simply the brief and almost 
uneventful annals of the town from its 
waking in the reign of George III 
throughout its term of active service 
in behalf of the colonies to its sleeping 
time today. It also gives quick 
glimpses of a few of the little people 
and places of delight in and around 
the village, and relates the Indian leg- 
ends and traditions told roundabout 
there, the story of famous Mount Cho- 
corua and the myths of Ossipee and 
Lake Asquam. 

The quotations running throughout 
are from Whittier's verse, as will 
readily be seen, and the sketches were 
done out under the open sky on the 
high hill tops, in apple orchards by 



winding roads and in long grasses of 
the fields, so that in those places 
where the student's touch has failed, 
artist charm may be dreamed into 
them by whosoever knows these sweet 
mountain meadows that were the Qua- 
ker poet's golden fields, and likewise, 
it is prayed, into the book. 




/. From the Little Path on the 
Apple Hill. 

II. In the Red Sunset Caravans 
of the Old Days Pass. 

III. The Little People of the Vil- 
lage. 

IV. "/ Lean my Heart Against 
the Day.'' 

V. Indian Legends Float in 
the Breezes. 



"It is as if the pine trees called mc 

From ceiled room and silent books. 
To see the dance of woodland shadows, 
..And hear the song of April brooks! 



I. 

FROM THE LITTLE PATH ON 
THE APPLE HILL. 

"I would I were a painter for the sake 
of a sweet picture " 

Not far up along the road to Ossip- 
pee, just a quarter of a mile beyond the 
village, there is a little hill where 
rocks and apples grow. A stone wall, 
put up in the time of George IIL, 
shuts out a mischievous tangle of 
blackberry briars, and helps support 
the heavily burdened arms of one of 
the oldest of the trees, some of whose 
rosy apples hang right over a tiny gate 
going into the hill. A few other ap- 
ples have tumbled down among tall 
grasses which flirt, in the wmd, with 
dashing groups of black-eyed daisies — 
there, in the very face of the little 
path — and such a tattle tale of a path! 
Off it runs to each one of the ancient 
apple trees, winks naughtily in the 
shadows, then hides in the spears of 
the red-top grass away from the lis- 
tening leaves. Pretty soon, shaking 
itself free from the field flowers and 
the long reaches of the circling trees, 
15. 



it climbs up the steep side of the hill, 
shudders by some big savage rocks 
that stretch out like an ogre's arms to 
grab it, and then — suddenly — before it 
is aware, is way up high on the tip-top 
of the little hill, all by itself, looking 
out to the whole wide world alone! 
* * * * 

"Through Sandwich Notch the west 

wind sang 
Good morrow to the cotter ** 

From this little path on the apple 
hill, the small white houses of the vil- 
lage appear like snow flakes. Some 
of them reach out in long, glistening 
lines, — they are white apron strings 
trying to hold back the runaway roads, 
for the little village is the mother 
place of a hundred highland roads, 
those truant chieftains of the New 
Hampshire Hills. Miles and miles 
through the purple mountains, by the 
white lake shores, they wind, — under 
gleaming birch belts, by dusky maple 
groves, along deep intervaels where 
the elms and willows droop, and where 
sing the sirens of the pines. Some- 
times they stop for breath in the low- 
lands where the sun burns hot, and, 
out of sight of their mother's eyes, 
they make golden love to the flowers 
there. Graceful forms of a thousand 
i6. 




Mx tAe. u.i,nd.'ina oT tV too.<i.S 



ferns lean over them; fragrant elder 
bushes hurry forth their rare white 
lacework; fading tones of the flowers 
of milkweed and iron-rust cast their 
glances as falling eye lashes; pale cel- 
andine trails her bridal veil before 
them, — daisies, buttercups, rich golden 
rod, — all the maiden flowers of mid- 
summer time, tiptoe close to the en- 
chanters — with no modesty whatever! 
But on go the flying chieftains, ferns 
and flowers clinging to their kilts! 
They round stone walls and fences 
made of the roots of giant old pines, 
hurry by deserted farms and abandon- 
ed mills, up and down, over streams, 
by long lanes and bridle paths, on and 
on, rising and falling, past cornfields 
and orchards in the sky, until — like 
the little path on the road to Ossip- 
pee, they climb right up into the 
clouds, and are lost forevermore! 

The only sound from the village is a 
tinkle of cow bells in the rock pasture 
near the school house; for, even in 
midsummer, with all the strangers 
here. Sandwich Center is quiet as a 
snow-fall. Tall spires of the little 
white churches, gray shingled roofs, 
red brick chimneys and green blinds 
of the snowy houses, their snug barns 
and wood shelters, wells, orchards, and 
herb gaidens, framed by the stone 
i8. 



walls, curve in and out of the trees in 
a play of fresh, bright color. The 
roads are silent as forest trails. 
Across from the postoffice is Dorr's 
hotel with its wide sheltered porches. 
Down the road a piece is Maybelle's 
house and the little white home of the 
twins, Ruth and Dorris, the minister's 
children. Marston's and Dr. White's 
are further on, and then, — beyond four 
willow trees, — the house where Mil- 
dred lives. The new school is but a 
stone's throw off. The old school was 
yonder down by Little Pond, there 
where Master Ladd, the lame teacher, 
taught for forty years. Mildred's fa- 
ther and her uncle used to draw him 
to school every day in a sled, and 
sometimes the other pupils helped. 
Near the store on Main street is May- 
belle's favorite place, the shop of the 
harness maker and clock mender. At 
the point of the road near the Spokes- 
field Pines is the Burleigh House, the 
old Sandwich Inn, and farther up, 
Diamond Ledge House and Miss Fos- 
ter's going by Perry's studio on the 
way. 

In the other direction towards Four 
Corners, the old blacksmith shop and 
the saw mill are passed on the right, 
then the marsh, and Wentworth's 
Pines and the lonely cabin of the 

19. 



strange old man of Sandwich, on the 
left, while at the very top of the hill 
are the Wentworth manor house and 
Adams's place where a massive stone 
wall extends for miles like some old 
Roman fortification. 

All through this region of North 
country the call of the Indian is min- 
gled with the voice of England's reign. 
Side by side on the guiding stones, 
with the musical Indian names, run 
the quaint letters of Tamworth town. 
North Conway, ^I^redith, Sandwich, 
South Chatham and Moultonboro. 

The valley where Sandwich Center 
sleeps is encircled by the hills as by a 
vast jeweled coronet of ever changing 
colors, purple and rose and red and 
gold;— Israel, Black Mountain, Sand- 
wich Dome, Red Hill, Ossipee, White- 
face, Paugus, Passaconnaway, Wonna- 
lancet, and, stirring in the distance, the 
horn of Mount Chocorua. Mightier 
ranges tower to the north, but none is 
more strange or beautiful than the 
mystic Sandwich range, guardian of 
Asquam and Winnepesaukee,— Smile 
of the Great Spirit,— of Bearcamp wa- 
ter and Lake Chocorua. Here was the 
beloved ground of Whittier,— here, 
where Indian legends float in the 
breezes. And when the little mists 
rise over the mountains, all the people 

20. 



say, "Look! the ghosts of the Indians 
are abroad this morning on Ossipee!", 
or "See, — they are smoking the pipe of 
peace on Israel!" 









21. 



II. 

IN THE RED SUNSET CARA- 

VANS OF THE OLD DAYS 

PASS. 



The Center's days of business and 
bustle have long since gone. It basks 
in the sun now, and is content to try- 
no more climbing of mountains. 
Sometimes it dreams. In the red sun- 
set caravans of the old days pass. 
Down through Sandwich Notch come 
the endless line of red sleds, drawn by 
oxen, and burdened with lumber for 
the building of the colonial settle- 
ments, or laden with pines for the 
royal navy. In those years, the New 
Hampshire white pines were stalwart 
trees standing high two hundred and 
fifty feet or more, and there grew not 
one in all that Sandwich region that 
was not destined to mast the royal 
navy, and branded with the broad ar- 
row by order of the king. For a set- 
tler to cut such down was, under Brit- 
ish law, a felony and punishable by a 
fine of one hundred pounds. 

In that time the only roads through 
the valley were these old lumber trails 

22. 



and the trails of the Indian, the moose, 
the bear and deer. Prospectors sur- 
veyed Sandwich valley nearly two cen- 
turies ago and built the first cabins of 
the village on the wooded banks of 
Little Pond, near Lower Corner. The 
town was granted by Colonial Gov- 
ernor Wentworth in 1763. Two years 
later, according to the old Sandwich 
records, Orlando Weed was granted, 
by vote of the proprietors at Exeter, 
seven hundred acres, seventy pounds 
of lav/ful money and seven cows, on 
condition that he would settle seven 
families in Sandwich, and build seven 
substantial dwelling houses, and clear 
forty acres of land within three years. 
The Wentworths erected their state- 
ly home with columned portico and 
solid walls, the one still standing on 
Wentv/orth Hill, the old capitol of 
Sandwich: 

"Still green about its ample porch 

The English ivy twines, 
Trained back to show in English oak 

The herald's carven signs." 

A number of other families celebrat- 
ed in early New England history, set- 
tled in the growing township, among 
them, the French, Sherman and White 
families, the last allied to the house 

23- 



of Oliver Cromwell. Peregrine White, 
the father of Dr. White who settled in 
Sandwich in that early period was the 
first child born in New England. 

Many of the survivors of the French 
and Indian war, men of the 4th New 
Hampshire regiment, migrated to the 
new township. With Spartan law and 
Spartan courage the daring little maid- 
en town of the wild hills was builded 
to a youth of activity and strength. 
During the Revolution she sent forth 
her sons to battle, gave them their 
shields, — return thou with them or 
upon them, — and they returned with 
them. In the records of the battle 
of Bunker Hill a Sandwich regiment is 
honorably mentioned. Meanwhile a 
marriage with a Quaker husband 
brought forth new elements of thrift 
and industry. Iron foundries, brick 
kilns, saw mills and grist mills were 
established, and shoes and clothing 
manufactured for all the country 
'round. The Sandwich cattle, Den- 
mark breed, became noted in growing 
New England, and there were no bet- 
ter farms in all the thirteen states 
combined. Thus, what, for the vil- 
lage, was its golden age, came, lasted 
for fifty years, — and went. 

With the outbreak of the civil war, 
again the martial clamor, the giving 

24. 



of the shields, and the Spartan admo- 
nition. This time the young men 
came back upon their shields, and the 
mother village bowed, never to look 
up again. Little by little an alien ele- 
ment crept in and took possession of 
the farms whose younger masters had 
either been killed or had abandoned 
them for the west. At the present 
time not more than five families, de- 
scendants of the colonial settlers, re- 
main in Sandwich. 

The village is awake to things only 
during the summer months, and here 
gather from all the world the dream- 
ing lovers of the White Hills. 














25. 



III. 

THE LITTLE PEOPLE OF THE 
VILLAGE. 

"A music as of household songs 
Was in her voice of sweetness." 

Mildred loves the little apple hill on 
the road to Ossipee. She is not afraid 
to go there alone because there are 
not any witches there, like those in 
the old float dam. There are fairies 
instead, and all the things for the 
fairies. 

"Look! This is their brown bread 
all ready for them, — only it got burn- 
ed in the oven," Mildred will say, tak- 
ing up a black-eyed daisy, "and oh, — 
this buttercup, — this is their pretty 
little butter dish full of butter!" Then 
she will gather her apron full of 
grasses and field flowers and bring 
them to one of her summer ladies un- 
der the apple trees. Mildred is a little 
field flower herself with her blue eyes 
and her light hair and her slight frail 
little body. She is seven years old, — 
"But I'm going to be eight, — my 
mother says it!" she cries. Because 
her father drives the stage to Centre 
Harbor she is very proud and catches 
26. 



her breath whenever the lumbering 
old coach goes by full of the summer 
folks. When Maybelle is mad with 
her she turns up her nose and says 
she need not think she is so much, for 
a tinner is much better than a stage 
driver! Maybelle's own father is the 
tinner and she is proud of that, but 
when Charlotte, the twins' big sister 
breaks in, with, "A minister is better 
than any," the children have not a 
word to say for Charlotte's father is 
the minister. 

Maybelle often wears boy's blue 
overalls and drives an old gray mare, 
hitched to a red hay rake out into the 
fields and works like a farmer until 
sundown. She is as different from 
Mildred and Dorris as high noon from 
dawn. Her face is like a rosy apple. 
She is sturdily built and proud of her 
muscle and her long golden brown 
hair which she wears in two thick 
braids. Sometimes she takes Mildred 
out to the fields too and lets her ride 
on the old gray mare. They both talk 
of the summer ladies then. O! the 
ladies who come in the summer time! 
Some of them have pink ribbons and 
white dresses full of beautiful lace, 
and embroidery on their petticoats. 
Once, one of them named Miss Flor- 
ence, had six gold rings, — and she 
27. 



gave Mildren one of them! That lady 
came from Boston. Mildred herself 
was there once. "That is a city," she 
says, "children cannot play in the 
roads there. I have seen make believe 
people there. I saw them in the store 
windows. It was there I saw Santa 
Clans. He was going down a chimney 
in Boston. Oh, do you know, there is 
one woman says Santa Claus isn't so! 
She is Mrs. Hinson, — she says it!" 

One morning, quite early Mildred 
ran out of her house as the summer la- 
dies passed going up to the apple hill: 
"Oh, — did you see the Gipsies go by 
this morning? Oh — oh — six waggings 
of them! But they didn't get me! I 
ran! Oncet they got Tom Clark an' 
he bawled fer his mother so they took 
him out an' strapped him to a tree an' 
Indianed him an' left him there!" To 
Indian anyone in Sandwich is to black 
his face and hands. 

Often at evening, sitting out on the 
schoolhouse rocks Mildred chatters 
away like a little sparrow: "I get up 
in the morning at seven o'clock, I 
pick up the dishes, then I strip the 
beds an' make them, then I wash the 
dishes an' water the hens. Then I 
swing in the swinging chair with baby. 
In the afternoon I play. I go to Hes- 
ter's or I play with Maybelle or the 

28. 



twins. We play mothers. I have six 
dolls an' a lounge bed an' a cradle. 
Then every night I lock the wood 
house door. If my mama should say 
to me, Mildred, you do not have to 
do your chores today, — I would do 
them just the same, — they help Papa. 
Oh, yesterday I went to Meredith,— I 
did! That is the place where I was 
born. It is a little farm. We have, — 
oh, a lot of hay an' a big large pas- 
ture, an' we let other horses come in, 
— we do." 

Once Miss Florence said to Mild- 
red: "I know such a dear little girl. 
She lives in a house near me and I 
think she is the best of all." 

"Oh,— I know!" cried Mildred, "that 
is me." 



29. 



In the large heart were fair guest 
chambers open to sunrise and to birds. 

Dorris looks at you, — so — her deep 
eyes clear as the waters of a mountain 
spring. She puts her tiny little white 
hand tenderly in yours if she loves 
you and walks beside you in the ev- 
ening wherever you go, without ques- 
tion and without chatter, silently and 
superbly as a star. She always takes 
Ruth by the hand also and if Mars- 
ton's dog or George Smith's red cow 
comes along the road Dorris will 
stand in front of Ruth to protect her. 
Sometimes the little ones, — and they 
are only just five years old, — *will come 
hand in hand to a fence that encloses 
summer boarders and look in by the 
hour. Once Ruth and Dorris got lost 
in the old mill pasture. That is a lone- 
ly place at all times, most gray and 
dismal, — and to be lost there is ter- 
rible. They were looking for thor- 
oughwort for Miss Mary Jane and 
they got off the road little by little, 
and under a fence and off in the hazel 
bushes before they knew it. Then 
they were lost. All at once, a big 
gray building, hollow as a hollow tree, 
all full of cracks and vines and spider 
webs, came up out of the ground. It 
was the haunted old grist mill left 
alone even when their own mother 
30. 



was young. Stones v/ere piled up in 
the old pasture as though it were a 
grave yard. One tree lay dead on the 
ground. Five mullein stalks, tall as 
Ruth herself, grew on the rock 
mounds. A gray cloud had fallen over 
the place long ago and never lifted. 
But over the broken fence was a 
bright green bed of brake. Then a 
bell broke the stillness and pretty soon 
it came nearer and nearer and a pair 
of terrible long sharp horns tossed 
over the brake. It was Smith's red 
cow! Dorris made Ruth lie down be- 
hind the stones and she knelt in front 
of her. There was no way to ever get 
out any more. "Cow do not come! 
Cow do not come!" Dorris prayed 
holding her hands over Ruth. The 
bushes parted by the dry mill run. 
Dorris closed her eyes but she did 
not move. And — it was not the cow — 
it was a lady, one of Dorris's own 
summer ladies with paints and a pic- 
ture. 

"I will not let the cow hurt Ruth, 
my little Dorris," she said, "she is 
really a good cow and she does not 
want to hook anybody. She only 
wants to find something to eat for her- 
self, — but we will go down this way 
across the branch. It is not far to 
your home." Then the lady lifted 

31. 



them over the Red Hill stream, and 
they were in Adams' wheat field right 
oflE and on the side of the road! And 
the cow did not get them at all. She 
just kept on eating. 



32 





« « 4: * the sodden forest floors 
With golden lights were checkered." 

The way to the old float dam begins 
not far from Mildred's house, just 
back of Dr. White's cornfield. After 
leaving the cornfield and jumping a 
fence, there is a little space of quiet 
meadow, crescent shaped, half hidden 
by the trees and full of fair light gras- 
ses and sunlit daisies. The pines with- 
draw their dark shadows far back. 
The gleaming branches of a solitary 
white birch form an arc of light just 
over the entrance into the mysterious 
wood, the beginning of the long trail. 
A log fallen over the marshy place, 
just here, makes a bridge to higher 
ground. Then but a little while, and 
the heart of the pines beats fast. Theif 
breath falls sweetly, and the ground 
underfoot is golden brown and soft 
with spears of the pines, piled there 
33- 



deep as snow in the long winter. Only 
a few glances of the sky pierce the 
deep rich green. Far darkening hol- 
lows roll down from the trail off into 
the maze of aisles and tree columns, 
blue crypts of the ancient cathedral. 
In many places, tiny mushrooms 
gleam like pearls and opals dropped 
by ghostly queens of long ago. 
Indian pipes, cold in color as old mar- 
ble, lift their slender shafts out of the 
gloom, — mist arises, — the smoke of 
yesterday's seven thousand years. So, 
through the way of dreams, passes the 
trail. Then it stops. A noisome, 
brackinsh stream lies across it like a 
snake crushed by a broken wall of 
Cyclopean rocks, and all beyond is bog 
and mire and swamp bound in by the 
everlasting pines. Out of the poison- 
ous marsh springs some strange wild 
flower red as blood. 



34. 



"The valley holds its breath 

No leaf of all its elms is twirled." 

A gray shaggy bowlder high on the 
ridge of a hill, — one apple tree lean- 
ing near, — that is Sunset Rock, the 
nearest point to the village where a 
view of all the mighty ranges may be 
had in one grand sweep. 

One summer a solitary stranger, 
some sweet-natured Thoreau, came to 
Sandwich and pitched his tent in the 
shadow of this rock. For two weeks 
he camped there speaking to no man, 
given over to the silent watch of the 
great hills. 

Another summer a young girl who 
sang, often stood upon the rocks. 
Alone in the twilight there, her blue 
dress like a bit of the dawn sky, and, 
with arms outstretched to the glowing 
hills, she would sing the love songs of 
the masters, — yearning of the ages — in 
saecula saeculorum. 



35. 



I 

'111 \'t?>?ifi^ 4 ife, 






IV. 



"I lean my heart against the day." 

A journal of the days runs all to clouds: 
Rich purple twilight, a mystery of red, the 
sad, fading red that glows and burns 
against the mountains, and lasts till all 
the other sky has grown dark and full of 

stars Cloud shadows over the valley ^ 

fain on Sandwich Dome, — white mist 
veiling it— low rain clouds breaking over 
it^the rain slanting down — and — com- 
ing — coming A clear, valiant blue 

sky, billows of snow white clouds rolling 
over all the hills — but over Osstpee— little 

purple mists like violets blowing 

Vast domes and palaces of clouds floating 
over the mountains at sunset— gold wings 
arising in the twilight— long streamers of 
color,— lavender, rose pink, old gold, edg- 
36. 



ing the hills,~then again that rich, warm 
red, beating like a great full heart-burn- 
ing into the night far behind the hills 

Today, tenderness and sweetness in 

the far far light blue— dear with baby 

clouds On Burleigh Hill, —a mighty 

black cloud brooding over the sky,— but 
toward the hills, light and white, the far 

distance, soft with mists Savage 

clouds suddenly gathering,— rolling dark 
and gray— casting shadows of war- 
through them tiny little maiden skies 
trembling— white veils hiding their sweet 
blue forms — torn in streaks by the fierce 
thunder-heads leaping hard upon them— 
ravishing them with a fearful delight. 



37. 



*A lover's claim is mine on all, 
I see to have and hold, — " 



A Diary of tte Harvest Montk 



"I climbed a hill path strange and new 
With slow feet, pausing at each turn, — 
A sudden waft of west wind blew 
The breath of the sweet fern." 

Whiteface today! We left in the 
dim cool mist just before dawn. There 
were only four pale stars in the sky 
and these, we soon lost in the shadow 
of Israel. Long interminable veils of 
mist hid the other ranges and covered 
the valley. "There's rain on White- 
face", said our guide. But far over 
eastward bloomed a gentle flush of 
rose color, — so we drove on. It was 
to be one of the sun's blue days, how- 
ever. He tried to be glorious, — but 
Aurora and her maidens must have 
been weeping, — so he was all upset. 
He came out and went back several 
times, then finally he stayed with the 
tearful maidens. Thus the mist was 
in nowise lifted when we reached the 
wonderful intervale at the foot of the 
slide-scarred mountain. After put- 
ting up our teams in the big barn of a 
comfortable farmhouse, there, we 
found the trail, pressed through the 

39. 



thick growth of wet hazel bushes, and 
after shaping alpine stocks, we began 
the ascent. There were two other 
girls besides Alice and myself in the 
party. They were from Concord, — 
apostles of Thoreau, — and they paus- 
ed with a quiet pleasure before every 
little faintly sketched flower and 
mountain plant along the misty trail. 
Two superb, active hours, mounting 
up through the pines, struggling under 
fallen trees, scaling big bowlders, go- 
ing higher and higher in the fast gath- 
ering mist, singing old English bal- 
lads; "Now gayly thro' the mountain 
glen, the hunter winds his horn!" — 
then all at once, shut in by the cloud, 
— hurriedly gathering pine boughs for 
a tent and stripping the giant birches 
for ponchos and umbrellas, — building 
a fire — watching the smoke crawl 
around our shivering fingers, — then 
suddenly all the skies opening and a 
wild mad flood pouring down, — a gal- 
lop to earth again, — back to the clean 
farm kitchen, a warm fire and good 
hot coffee. 



40. 



"Through each branch-enwoven sky- 
light 

Speaks He in the breeze, 
As of old beneath the twilight 

Of lost Eden's trees!" 

August 6th. 
Last night I ran off secretly to the 
Spokesfield Pines. I tip-toed away 
from the house while everyone was 
sound asleep, just as the late moon 
was coming up over the hills. I hur- 
ried along the white road by the 
silent houses. Marstan's dog barked 
furiously at me, but no one woke up 
and I came safely to the last house of 
the village. This was beyond the old 
Burleigh Inn, and a light was in one 
of the front rooms. Old Susan Wil- 
ley was still sewing rag carpets! My 
heart trembled as I left the light. I 
felt as though I were about to enter 
into some terrible but sweet adven- 
ture, — some divine rendezvous! After 
vaulting the fence just beyond the old 
pump there I struck the trail and in 
another moment was shrouded in the 
darkness of the pines. Shadows have 
41. 



such a fearful delight. I lay in them 
until I was too frightened to get up. 
There was a strange shape in front of 
me that seemed to move. After a long 
while, — it seemed hours — I thrust out 
my hands, — and touched, — a black- 
berry briar swaying in the wind over 
an old stump. I drew closer and Z 
saw it was the very stump whose rin^s 
we had counted last Wednesday. The 
tree had but recently fallen. Dr. 
Wiggin used a magnifying glass to get 
the records and we found that it was 
five hundred years old. Ir certain 
parts of the Spokesfield voods the 
pines are grouped in curiously har- 
monious lines. As things became more 
distinct I could follow this fine group- 
ing and the fantastic play of the light. 

I stretched myself out full length 
on the pine needles and breathed in 
the cool freshness and looked up long 
through the pine boughs. I wished 
for more stars. I thought of a girl I 
had met once five years before, from 
far up in Duluth, one who had slept 
in the pines along the great lake shore, 
who had spoken to me of the large 
stars before dawn, of the song of the 
pines and the breath of the pines. I 
saw her walking in the shadows with 
her pale face upturned, and I knew 
42. 



now, at last, how she had felt in the 
pines, 

I counted the sounds I heard. A 
cock crew way off somewhere. A dog 
barked, an owl hooted and a sleepless 
squirrel dropped an acorn at my feet. 
It made such a loud noise I jumped. 
Then I lay quiet again. I marked the 
swift changes of the moonlight on the 
black trunks of the pines and in their 
lofty boughs, the fast traveling and 
checkered glow on the soft clean 
ground and the long mellow sweeps of 
light. 

Then I wrapped my coat tightly 
about me and slept long in the song 
of the pines. I awoke desiring a lover. 




43. 



"All through the long bright days of 

June 
Its leaves grew green and fair 
And waved in hot midsummer noon 
Its soft and yellow hair 

August loth. 

On Rock Maple Ridge today 

"First, a lake, tinted with sunset; next 
the waving lines of far reaching hills," 
. . . .the might and majesty of Israel, — 
then all at once a glory of golden 
wheat on the very crest of the steep 
hill, waving like hair in the wind, 
shining like hair in the sun — a wonder 

past the telling One dwarf like 

old man wrinkled and long bearded 
bent double over his scythe, — Hagen 
stealing the gold from the Rhine maid- 
ens. 



"Somewhere it laughed and sang; 

somewhere 
Whirled in mad dance its misty hair, 
But who had raised its veil, or seen 
The rainbow skirts of that Undine?" 

August 15. 
Today we drove to Beedis' Falls, — 
the wonder road through Sandwich 
Notch: 

"The river hemmed with leaning trees 
Wound through its meadows green; 

A long blue line of mountains showed 
The open pines between. 

"One sharp, tall peak above them all 
Clear into sunlight sprang, 

I saw the river of my dreams. 
The mountains that I sang." 

At the place where we stopped first 
the water flowed quietly over a great 
wide sweep of solid rock. Wading 
was slippery but full of delight. I 
dropped all my petticoats and letting 
fly my hair I leaped, feeling like a 
deer, down over to the smaller rocks 
45. 



where the water began to tumble and 
I could be drenched in its tossing 
spray. Flashes of the sunlight warm- 
ed my wet legs and arms, and I danc- 
ed every wild step I knew, — feeling so 
free and glorious: 

"The leaves through which the glad 

winds blew 
Shared the wild dance the waters 

knew; 
And where the shadows deepest fell, 
The wood-thrush rang his silver bell. 

"Fringing the stream at every turn, 
Swung low the waving fronds of fern; 
From stony clefts and mossy sod, 
Pale asters sprang, and golden rod. 

The turquoise lakes, the glimpse of 

pond 
And river track, and, vast, beyond 
Broad meadows belted round with 

pines 
The grand uplift of mountain lines! 



46. 



"We held our sideling way above 

The river's whitening shallows, 

By homesteads old, with wide fltmg 

barns 
Swept through and through with swal- 
lows. 

August 20. 

Yesterday Alice and I drove along 
by Israel by way of the old stage road. 
We passed a dingy farm house where 
the old people were left alone. A 
quaintly fashioned letter box had been 
put up years before in front of their 
house, — when their only son went 
west. Every day, when the stage pass- 
ed they watched for a letter. Finally 
two robins built a nest in the little 
box. Every spring they came back; 
no letter has ever disturbed them., .. 
We came to another farm house de- 
serted and forlorn, a haunted place, 
far in the fields. Israel has many such. 
It broods over them gloomily, but the 
highland roads laugh in its grave face 
and run carelessly by the abandoned 
homes of its lost children. It was 
warm yesterday; a drowsy sense even 
in those gay roads, — O! the charm of 

47. 



their sleep on the breasts of the maid- 
en flowers! 

"Along the roadside, like the flowers 

of gold 
That tawny Incas for their gardens 

wrought, 
Heavy with sunshine droops the gold- 
en rod, 
And the red pennons of the cardinal 

flowers 
Hang motionless upon their upright 

staves. 
The sky is hot and hazy, and the 

wind, 
Wing-weary with its long flight from 

the south, 
Unfelt; yet, closely scanned yon maple 

leaf 

With faintest motion, as one stirs in 

dreams. 
Confesses it. The locust by the wall 
Stabs the noon silence with his sharp 

alarm. 
A single hay-cart down the dusty road 
Creaks slowly, with its driver fast 

asleep on the load's top. 

Against the neighboring hill, 

Huddled along the stone wall's shady 

side, 
The sheep snow white, as if a snow- 
drift 

48. 



Defied the dog-star. Through the 
open door 

A drowsy smell of flowers, — gay helio- 
trope, 

And white sweet clover, and shy mig- 
nonette — 

Comes faintly in, and silent chorus 
lends 

To the pervading symphony of peace." 

So we drove and we drove, Alice 
and I, — we followed the roads as the 
flowers did, we embraced them, we 
adored them, — and we did not blame a 
single little aster! It was dark when we 
turned homeward, — "See how those 
clouds lown down turn to mountains," 
said Alice, "and the pastures stretch off 
smooth into space, — look, — the mist 
sweeping up from the valley over 
Israel.." Then we watched the stars 
come out. With half closed eyes we 
watched the mystic fairness of the 
hills, — those brides of the night clouds 
and the stars, — adorning themselves 
for their sweet bridegrooms. 

"How far and strange the mountains 

seem. 
Dim-looming through the pale, still 

light! 
The vague, vast grouping of a dream, 
They stretch into the solemn night. 

49. 



August 30. 
Today, — today, — all day under the 
apple trees! A big white cloud lumin- 
ous with light arising over the sloping 
gray roof — all the sky a clear and se- 
rene blue — apples shining on the trees, 
— mellow, — full of sweet fruit-smell, — 
the sad leaves closing around them 
tenderly — holding them fast, — know- 
ing their loss is coming 



50. 



V. 

INDIAN LEGENDS FLOAT IN 
THE BREEZES. 

"Let Indian ghosts, if such there be, 
Who ply unseen their shadowy lines, 
Call back the ancient name to thee 
As with the voice of pines!" 

Although Israel is mighty and much 
beloved, Ossipee sings to the heart 
with the woman's love song. Its fair 
brow, gold crowned, the rising sunlit 
dome, like the one burning breast of 
an Amazon girl, — the long, grace of 
its firm lines, — the sweetness of the 
little clouds, — its winged children — 
playing over it, — then the transparent 
blushing wonder of it when the twi- 
light falls 

Long ago, so the stories say, an 
ocean of pines swept the vast hill from 
base to dome; the very name in the 
Indian tongue meant Mountain of the 
Pines, and it was the Indian symbol 
of the ideal. 

The Ossipee Falls are the Falls of 
the Song of the Pines. Some say that 
late in November a plaintive note is 
heard here. That is the last cry of an 
Indian brave of the Pequaket tribe. 
He took up arms against John Cham- 
51. 



berlain, the murderer of Paugus, the 
great chief, and he pursued him over 
the valleys from Winnepesaukee to 
Ossipee Falls. The pale face leaped 
the falls, — the very spot is pointed out 
today, — but the Indian fell in his haste, 
and perished in the foaming waters, — 
and his ghost has haunted the place 
ever since, white spray of the restless 
waters, mist of dreams. 




52. 



Light mists, whose soft embraces keep 
The sunshine on the hills asleep! 

The little lake Asquam, meaning the 
beautifui-surrounded-by-water-place, is 
very fair. Like most inland waters it 
is crystal clear, reflecting minutely ev- 
ery change and tinge of color of the 
clouds and trees and sky. It is only 
two miles beyond Sandwich on the 
road under the red oaks and maples 
of Red Hill to Center Harbor. It is 
not big, like Winnepesaukee, but it is 
even more charming. The graceful 
curves of its shore lines, the miniature 
islands rocking on its waters, and the 
mists arising at dawn and evening take 
possession of every sense. 

The Indian myth that lies sleeping 
on the waters' breast wakes only in a 
fierce thunder storm at night, when 
the curse of old Wamego flashes in the 
lightning, the moaning of Suneta 
haunts the valley for miles around, and 
the love song of Anonis yearns far in 
the lonely hills. Long ago, the legend 
says, an old Indian chief, the ugly 
Wamego, whose squaw had died, lived 

53- 



on the shores of Squam. Suneta, the 
daughter of a neighboring chief, was 
sold to him by her father, although she 
was pledged to Anonis, a brave of her 
own tribe. The marriage feast with 
the ugly chief was celebrated. Before 
many moons had passed, however, 
when one night the old Wamego lay 
sleeping heavily, Suneta heard her lov- 
er's voice. 

"Come! The night is dark and stormy, 
My canoe is on the lake. 
My beloved! I cannot live without you. 
You are mine! 

Death awaits me tonight if I bear you 
not away in mine arms!" 

Suneta sprang to him and they fled 
though the shadows. Wamega 
awoke, followed them and caught 
them. With his tomahawk he killed 
Anonis, and lifting up his voice over 
the fainting Suneta, cried, "May fire 
blast her! Let the Manitou make of 
her an example to coming time!" A 
flash of lightning and a savage growl 
of thunder replied to his words. The 
body of Suneta was turned to stone, — 
circle of the sighing wind, miserere, — 
the ever living Franceska and Paolil 
Today all the people who come to 
Asquam look upon the rock so 

54. 



"Part thy blue lips, Northern Lake! 
Moss grown rocks your silence break! 

Tell the tale thou ancient tree! 
Thou, too, slide-worn Ossipee! 
Speak, and tell us how and when 

Lived and died this King of Men!" 

The mountain of all mountains 
around Sandwich is Chocorua, the 
Prophet's Tomb. It is known far and 
wide beyond any other of the White 
Hills, save Mount Washington alone, 
and it is loved far more than any oth- 
er. Even children may climb Cho- 
corua, and its story is a tale told at 
the New England firesides in the long 
winter, even as the story of the Black 
Douglas stirred the Scottish hearts of 
long ago, Chocorua was a chief of the 
Ossipee tribe. He was afraid of noth- 
ing. He fought in many battles with 
the white men to keep the home and 
the hunting ground of his people. But 
the settlers and the soldiers were too 
strong for him. The Ossipee tribe 
was driven, by foot, over the border 
into Canada. Chocorua and a handful 
of braves remained. They established 

55- 



their stronghold on a nameless moun- 
tain where roamed the bears and the 
deer. The colony of Massachusetts 
offered many pounds of silver tor 
scalps of the Indians. Thus, for 
blood money, one by one, Cho- 
corua's men were killed. The long 
winter came and Chocorua was left 
alone. For many months no white man 
dared go near the nameless moun- 
tain for very dread. But when the 
spring awoke and the white ramparts 
of snow fell from Chocorua's fort, 
every pass into the forest there was 
guarded, and a hundred men assembled 
to hunt down the fierce chieftain. He 
retreated farther and farther up the 
mountain, pressed on by his enemies, 
until at last he reached the peak, that 
sharp tower rock, like a leaning battle- 
ment in the sky. His arrows were 
gone; death or capture was before him. 
With folded arms he stood silent on 
the peak. A bullet whistled by him. 
Then he lifted up his voice in a 
prophecy of woe to the white man's 
land, of sickness to the cattle, of death 
to the young men. He sang the cry of 
the abandonment of the land, then he 
plunged into the dark sea of mist and 
pines three thousand feet below. The 
mountain was named his brave name. 
It is graven there forevermore. 

56. 



A huge gray bowlder lies today un- 
der a giant birch not far from the 
Half-Way House of Chocorua: — 

"And there the fallen chief is laid, 
In tasseled garbs of skin arrayed, 
And girdled with his wampum braid. 

"There shall his fitting requiem be 
In Northern winds that, cold and free 
Howl nightly in that funeral tree. 

"O, peeled and haunted, and reviled, 
Sleep on, dark tenant of the wild! 
Great Nature owns her simple child." 

"Yes, — dees be ze place where Sho- 
coruay be buried," says old "Dutch" 
Liberty, keeper of the Half-Way 
House, "dees be ze place!" Liberty is 
a French-Canadian by birth but he has 
been in New Hampshire beyond folks' 
counting, and by Carroll County logic, 
smce it be not English that he speaks, 
he must be a Dutchman. He is at any 
rate an industrious toll gatherer. He 
Knows by natural instinct every foot 
oi the ground Chocorua trod, and, 
even as the guides of Holyrood, he too 
can point out drops of blood along 
the trail and can speak the very words 
of Chocorua's curse. 

"Zen ze cattle zey die by one, by 

57. 



two, by ze hunder, — all from Shoco- 
ruay's curse." But Mrs. Liberty shakes 
ber head mildly, "That be, so I hear, 
om account of too much lime in tie 
water. They gave the cattle soapsuds 
an' they was cured. But when I mer- 
ried Liberty an' come up here on the 
mountain ter love, scarce a body 
would plant foot on Shocoruay, That 
be thirty year ago come next August, 
an' here we be still." 

Mrs. Liberty is of Quaker blood and 
Quaker gentleness. Her eyes are blue, 
and her hair a soft, waving white. Her 
face is fine and in spite of her sixty 
odd years, fresh and rosy in coloring, 
and her bearing stately and erect. On 
sunny afternoons she sits for hours on 
the steps of the Half-way House, knit- 
ting little presents for her friends, the 
visitors to Chocorua. She brings 
them glasses of mountain water and 
looks to their comfort in many ways. 

The Halfway House is just a rough 
three-roomed shack made of pine 
boards. Red calico curtains are tack- 
ed across the windows and scarlet 
geraniums in old tomato cans blow on 
the pine window sills. Mountain air 
and the scent of the balsam fir fill the 
bare, dean, little rooms. From the 
front door the hill descends, past the 
corali for the tourists' teams, far down 

58. 



into the white birch belt. The incline 
is steep from the rear of Halfway 
House. A silver trout stream tumbles 
down the hill as though it were going 
to run straight into the back door of 
the little house, but it takes a sharp 
turn to the right just where the Lib- 
erty trail begins. 

"Be ye goin' ter climb Shocoruay 
today?" Mrs. Liberty asks, "it be 
blowin' strong on the peak today, but 
there's fifteen gone before ye. But they 
ain't done fixin' the teams yet so you 
kin set awhile with me. Be I lonely? 
Wa'al yes, there ain't never a soul 
comes near Shocoruay long in the 
winter, an' me an' Liberty we jest 
sets here, an' does our chores, an' sets 
here. I say to myself God hev set me 
down here on Shocoruay, an' here to 
stay, an' I prays ter Him an' takes my 
lot. T'aint so hard when you come to 
think. We got potatoes yonder an* 
flour in the shack, an' bacon enough 
ter last, an' thar be plenty of wood for 
fire, an t'aint so cold about here as 'tis 
in other places. It be cold enough 
though, an' never a livin' body, but 
along about Spring, though, all that's 
changed, an' friends begin ter come, 
an' keep a coming' till October sets in. 
I'd rather be here than on the farm. 
Sometimes me an' Liberty we shets up 

59. 



the Halfway House an' goes to the 
farm, but it is about the same wher- 
ever we goes. Liberty an' me made 
the trail up Shocoruay, — yes, there be 
other trails, but they be full of harri- 
canes. It keeps Liberty an' me work- 
in' ter keep the trail in shape, an' this 
be the only one folks travel on much. 
The folks come from all parts, — all 
over the world ter see Shocoruay. 
There be one old lady my age gone 
up there today, — there be a good many 
old ladies hev climbed Shocoruay. 
you'll take notice of the one gone up 
today maybe. She has an spectacles 
an' wears a cape with a red plaid lin- 
ing, — I reckon you'll see her. Then 
there's some comes from Boston every 
summer an' New York. Everybody 
knows about Shocoruay, though I 
can't say as I see much ter it, — Shoco- 
ruay be Socoruay." 

In all the Sandwich region so stir- 
ring with melodies of clouds and birds, 
children, flowers and pines, and lakes 
and hills; there is no chord more ma- 
jestic, more sublime than this, — Cho- 
corua! At first, in minor key, in pierc- 
ing sweet, the young trail leaves the 
glowing stream beyond the Halfway 
House, and tenderly steps into the fast 
vanishing zone of the white birches. 
Embraced by the pale, slender arms 
60. 



of those fairy trees, shadowed in long 
arches of green leaves, it lingers pleas- 
antly, — and sadly, — for a mile or more. 
Then it dips low down into a stony 
hollow, wet underfoot for a space, 
then mounts sharply up with sturdy 
strength into the black belt of the 
pines. Streams of water, — myriads of 
them, spring from the mysterious 
rocks, and dance down the steep de- 
scent like water sprites. Like slender 
white threads they curve down under 
the traveler's feet and wind off into the 
deep forest, — magic ways to Fair Rosa- 
mond. Enchanters appear in the shape 
of wonderful vistas, now far ahead or 
far back or to right or left, to lure the 
pilgrim off the trail. But Chocorua's 
summit is on ahead, — the donjon tow- 
er, — and a view of the mighty keep, it- 
self, Mount Washington, and all the 
walls and battlements and towers and 
turrents of the great castled land. Off 
to the south the vast moat, — waters of 
Winnepesaukee will glow, — again, in 
the heart of the valley Sandwich Vil- 
lage and all her little sister towns will 
be seen in their quiet sleep, while far 
off, miles beyond the hundred lakes, 
far across the country a long pale line 
will stretch, — the coast of Maine dim 
in the mist of the sea. 



6i. 



Though the promise is fair and rich, 
the hillside is a wonderful thing— and 
hard to leave. It is a dreamer, savage 
and poetical — voice of the dying Moses 
murmuring low, precious things of the 
everlasting hills. 

The way grows steep and bare. The 
pines are dwarfs, the rocks are giants. 
The earth begins to recede; the prom- 
ise is about to be fulfilled. The re- 
gions of the sky are here. With a 
very trumpet's blast, the wild wind 
charges down, armored in black rocks, 
with boughs of the leaning pines his 
lance and battle ax, spray of the green 
pine his bright pennon — over all white 
plumage of the clouds — laugh of Die 
Walkure. 

The joust is on — the tournament of 
rocks and wind and sky. 
Laissez aller! 

A valiant step upward — a shouting 
in the very air — behold the peak, Cho- 
corua! 



62 



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